At the center of my head there’s a bird’s nest, and in it
there are three eggs, each with search lights that rove
in every direction out through my head into space.
As the path of evolution takes sudden turns and mergers occur
between plants and animals, so souls merge into a cluster environment.
Three weebles build a fire at the center of their nest, for warmth,
then throw their hands up in celebration as a fourth rises
out of the fire, looking at a ceiling of rainbow colored waves.
Ghost like, the fourth weeble breaches all barriers
and fireworks go off above, while a strange flag flaps on a high pole.
The inner workings of a creature are never complete because it exists
in time, and like an umbrella in a rainstorm it may work for a while
then need to be adjusted, until it’s just tossed aside altogether.
The ghost weeble looks down and sees that it’s
a donut he’s just emerged from at the center, and it’s closing fast.
Go back in or hold still? the infinite decision.
There’s something that outweighs the need, the beauty, the comfort
of connection: the shine of an escaping synaptic event,
the energy that escapes into prayer,
a leap of faith into purposeful and graceful futurity.